The Old Days
by QuasiOuster
Summary: Set between seasons 3 and 4. This is a series of one-shots on how Michonne and Daryl pass the time during their adventures to gather resources for the group. In those months, they fight, joke around and save each other's lives. But as they become a formidable team against their dangerous new world, a friendship emerges that helps them adjust both inside and outside the prison.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: Herewith is the usual disclaimer that I do not own or profit off of anything related to The Walking Dead. **_

_**This will be a series of scenes about how Daryl and Michonne pass the time together when they're out on those early runs. The focus is on how their camaraderie evolves through these adventures, mostly in a lighthearted way to counter all the bleakness on the show. They won't be in any chronological order and they'll range in tone: funny, nostalgic, action-oriented, sad, etc. These are still un-beta'ed so please excuse any of my editing oversights.**_

_**Enjoy and thanks for reading!**_

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**Chapter One: Eat an Apple**

Daryl and Michonne shuffled along the footpath, overgrown farmland on one side and forest treeline on the other. The wind blew the leaves above them and at their feet signaling the familiar sounds of fall. But the chill of the early morning weather had burned out into a beautifully crisp, sunny afternoon.

They'd just come from raiding a small farmhouse that turned up a surprisingly decent number of tools and supplies they could use at the prison. The foodstuffs they found were pretty meager—the previous owners had cleared out the place before running off. The number of blankets and extra clothes they discovered more than made up for it though. In hand was the last of the load they had to drag to the car; a downed tree in the road prevented them from pulling up to the front door. So far, only a dozen or so walkers had appeared and they were easy enough to dispatch. It was one of their better runs so far, all in all.

This trip finished off the remaining stash of tools and a spare comforter they'd missed on the other trips; Michonne carried the former, smirking when leaving Daryl with the lighter load. He compensated for the affront by stomping ahead of her to set the pace.

About fifty feet from the car, he abruptly stopped and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Michonne slowed and stepped up to stand beside him. He pointed to something in the distance and redirected their trajectory.

"Well, will you look at that?"

They walked for a few minutes before approaching a row of apple trees, the only ones in the vast field of overgrown crops. There were faded etchings on some of the trunks, suggesting that they had been planted there not as crops but as some sort of personal project of the previous owners. Of greater note were the numerous bundles of perfectly ripened apples spilling off of the branches.

Combined with the bags of pecans they brought back a couple of weeks ago, this was going to bring the house down back at the prison.

Daryl dropped his pack and opened up the comforter he carried at the base of the first tree. Turning to a silent Michonne, he pointed to the makeshift sack he'd prepared for the produce he was about to unload.

"I'm 'a climb up and cut some 'a these apples down. Roll the stragglers onto the blanket for me, will ya?"

Michonne grinned as she circled the comforter on the ground, scrutinizing him as he figured out how best to scramble up the tree. "Why don't _you_ roll the apples on the blanket after _I_ climb up and get them. I can probably get up that thing better than you can."

Daryl dropped the foot that was testing out his traction against the bark of the tree. He turned fully to Michonne to check if she was serious, incredulous grin playing at his mouth.

"I been climbin' trees since I was knee-high to a pup. Aint no way your city ass can climb a tree better 'an me."

Shrugging, Michonne dropped her load of tools a few feet from the tree and slid the backpack from her shoulders. "That was a long time ago, Dixon. Maybe I've made some headway on you in the last few months." Daryl didn't appear convinced. "You've been relaxing out on farms and tucked into your comfy prison cell at night." He crossed his arms and glowered at her exaggerated description of his group's difficult past months out in the world, although there was no real bite to his expression or her jests. "Meanwhile, I've been living off the land. And that means climbing trees on a regular basis."

Uncrossing his arms and letting them rest at his hips, Daryl peered up at the tree and then back to his traveling companion. "So you're sayin' that you can out-climb me?" His posture straightened, alpha male stance out in full force. Michonne knew exactly what she was doing and had hit just the right nerve.

She swiveled around to take in the line of trees peppering the field. "I'm saying that not only can I climb trees better, but I can also pick faster than you."

This made Daryl laugh. "With those little hands?" Daryl enjoyed making fun of how small her hands were even though it'd come in handy a few times when a delicate touch was more effective than brute force. "Listen, it aint the time to be cute, Michonne. Now spread that there blanket out and I'll let you know when I'm 'a throw these apples down." He gripped the base of the tree and made a few hops to test his leverage.

"Wanna put your money where your mouth is?"

Daryl paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Not much use no more for a dollar these days." When he'd returned both feet to solid ground, he turned and leaned against the tree, contemplating her offer. Michonne stared at him with a challenge in her eye that stoked his competitiveness. "What kinda wager you got in mind, Catwoman?"

His name-calling was met with a scowl. "Two nightshifts in the guard tower and complete control of the music for the next run."

Daryl smiled, whistling at her boldness. "Looks like we got a high roller over here. Make it four nightshifts and I pick the tunes for the next two runs." Michonne narrowed her eyes at him as a grin crept across her lips. "And," he added, "to sweeten the pot some, no more 'a that classical music shit for a month. Damn near had an accident last time snoozin' to that crap."

His confidence was coming off him in waves. He didn't see any way he could lose. Sure, he hadn't been out living in the wild for a while but a string of months in the sticks don't make up for a lifetime of surviving in the backwoods.

Michonne leaned down to shift the comforter farther out from the tree. "You're on. And, likewise, no more Allman Brothers Band. Enough is enough." She was quite aware of how that slight would rile him right up.

True to form, Daryl's frown was a fierce one as he stepped away from the tree. "Alright, here's how we do this. I'll take this tree, you take that one right there," indicating the third tree from the end. It had about the same structure and number of blooming branches as his. "We both clock in at three minutes 'a pickin' time, tackin' on how long it takes to get up and down. When I end up with the most fruit in the shortest amount 'a time, you gotta pay up." He smirked at the sight of Michonne rolling her eyes.

"Let's do it." They gripped hands up high to seal the deal and Daryl tossed her the watch he kept in his belt for when they went out on runs.

Daryl did another assessment of his tree, strategizing about the best grips along the trunk and the most sturdy branches that would give him good access to the fruit clusters swaying gently in the wind. After circling twice, he turned to Michonne, an intimidating presence in her stillness, and nodded that he was ready.

"Go."

Daryl scrambled up the tree, easily pulling his bulk along the thick trunk and reaching the lower branches in under thirty seconds. He didn't waste time with gloating because when he won this, he wanted it to be a total ass-kicking as punishment for her being so damn cocky.

Michonne watched from the ground, attention split between the watch in her hands and the progress of the man in the tree, now making a steady stream of apples rain down from the upper branches. Every so often, he paused, changed position, and secured a tighter grip on his new segment of the tree. He continued to seamlessly cut away the stray fruit with both his hands and the knife he normally carried at his hip.

"Thirty seconds left," she yelled up.

Instead of going farther out where it would take longer to get down, Daryl reached up and stripped a few areas out of its ripened fruit. When Michonne called time, he stowed his knife and carefully slid back to the thick trunk, scurrying down even quicker than he'd climbed.

After he dusted off his hands, he met Michonne at the edge of the blanket, now covered in apples, rustling leaves and stray branches clinging to the fruit. They did a quick count and Michonne met his smug stare with a raised eyebrow.

"Not bad, Squirrel Boy." He was feeling too good about this bet to sass her for her sarcasm.

They each took two corners of the comforter and backed their load up to Michonne's tree, laying it down at a spot that she chose. They flipped a layer of the blanket over to cover Daryl's stash so they could get an accurate count of what Michonne was able to deliver.

She did a similar assessment as Daryl, circling the tree and considering which route would yield the most fruit. During one turn, she passed her fingers over an old engraving in the bark and took a moment to wonder about and mentally thank the family that had taken care of these trees for so long. Moving on, she returned her focus to how best to wipe that self-satisfied grin off of Daryl's face. By now, he should know better than to underestimate her quickness or her agility.

"Aint got all day, girl. You gon' do this or should we just pack it up and get on with it. I got enough there in my haul to go 'round." Michonne's piercing gaze steadied on him for a few beats, chin raised about as defiant and proud as he'd ever seen her. Then without warning her posturing transformed into a predatory grin. Daryl wouldn't admit to it being unnerving but the message of her challenge was definitely received.

Tossing the watch back to Daryl, she checked the latch on the knife she wore at her belt and waited for Daryl's cue.

"Clock's runnin'," Daryl tossed at her. Before the breath of his words fully left his lips, she was up the tree like a rocket. He swore quietly at the surprise of it. He'd been joking with that Catwoman nickname but damned if it didn't fit her at the moment. She made it to the first level of branches in about the same amount of time as him but she kept going even farther up.

Almost a minute in and not a one apple had landed so despite the quick start, Daryl was still feeling pretty good about his odds. He thought Michonne was the best fighter he'd seen in these times, quick and deadly with a steady hand. But even if those hands had saved him a few times over, there wasn't no way those little appendages could cut those apples down faster than him. She shimmied along one of the more questionably sturdy branches and, after testing that it would hold her, she did the damndest, most unexpected thing.

She drew her katana.

Leveraging it against the branch directly below her, she ran the sharp blade along the bark and in one swift sweep of her arm, a string of apples clustered to the ground. When that limb was left bare, she moved to the one overhead and repeated the technique, dodging the falling fruit as it headed to the pile below. The thumping of the bundles at the impact made him wince.

"Son of a bitch," Daryl said aloud.

He was so amazed and then pissed and finally worried over her tactic, he almost forgot to watch for the time. Another minute passed, and skepticism started melting into dread. This city girl was in the middle of out-classing him. Him, Daryl Dixon. He was the strongest, most nature-able survivor in their community. And this stealthy, sword-swinging ringer had just played him for a total chump.

It was a clear indicator that these times changed folks if ever there ever was one.

Looking down to check her time, he called up to her a thirty second warning—like it even mattered now. She'd stripped the one side of the tree damn near clean and was still going. At fifteen seconds to go, she stopped, re-sheathed her katana and lowered herself branch by branch until she was a few feet from the ground. Then instead of heading into the tree to slip down the trunk, she kneeled and gripped the inner-most section of the branch. She lowered down until she was hanging by her arms. A few strategic swings later and she was soaring to the ground, rolling at impact and then rising to her feet while dusting off the dirt from her pants.

Now he had seen everything. This girl was a fucking badass, bona fide samurai.

Daryl felt like he needed to pick his jaw up from the ground as Michonne wandered to where he stood, shock still apparent across his face. "You wanna do a count?" she asked, amusement oozing from every syllable. There was no need to count. The winner was clear. Usually she was so damn stoic but at the moment she was intent on letting him know in every way how much she was going to enjoy her victory.

Daryl Dixon was many things, but a sore loser wasn't one of them. His astonishment gave way to a grin and he nodded to her in acknowledgment of her superior apple picking skills.

"Nice work. Don't think I'll be tanglin' with you again no time soon. Can't afford to no more." Michonne tried to suppress her satisfied grin at that and failed miserably.

Her laugh broke free finally. "Lesson learned, Dixon. But to ease your pain, I'll let up on the classical music. Or maybe just less Haydn." The sound of her snickers trailed behind her as she approached the comforter, now covered in a pile of apples. Shaking his head, Daryl joined her.

Each taking a corner of the comforter, they crept across the field to the car. It was slow going given how heavy it was and the care they took to secure the ends so the apples wouldn't spill out. With some satisfaction, they dumped the load of fresh fruit into the trunk. They wandered back to the first tree to retrieve their backpacks and original supplies from the farmhouse without a word spoken to each other.

All their items stowed, they climbed into the car to head back, Daryl in the driver's seat and Michonne riding shotgun. The smell of apples followed them as they drove away from the scene of their latest haul.

After they'd been cruising for a few minutes, Daryl said, "You know I'm 'a get you back for that right?"

Michonne grinned over at him as he returned his eyes to the road. "I have a feeling you will. Or at least you'll try."

He glared at her again and then reached under the seat for their CD case. He fumbled with it for a few seconds before popping out a familiar disk, turning up the volume as high as he dared. If this was the last time he could enjoy his Allman Brothers Band with her in the car, he was gonna go out rockin'. Adding his voice to the chorus of the first song, more mumbling the words than singing, he swayed to the beat and tapped out the drum rhythm on the steering wheel. It was a petty level of payback, he knew, but so be it. She'd practically tricked him into that bet after all.

Surprisingly, Michonne allowed his antics to stand, too high off her win to protest his last hurrah. "Get it out of your system, Dixon. It's now off the rotation for a while."

She reached into her pack and pulled out a shiny, ripe apple, twisting it in her hands and methodically polishing it to ensure he got a good look while she gloated. Unclipping her knife, she sliced cleanly into the fruit and Daryl heard the familiar crunch as she popped out a wedge with her blade.

As the song came to an end, she reached over and offered him the first taste of their bounty.

Their exchange, as Daryl grabbed the morsel from her hand, was full of a friendly spirit, respect given and received from both ends. He stuffed the slice in his mouth, hearing her cut another piece and join in on the snacking.

The next song started, Daryl continued to serenade them—now with a mouthful of apple which scored extra annoyance points with Michonne—and they drove on towards home. Mission accomplished.

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_**AN: I know peaches would have been more appropriate for Georgia but I needed a fall fruit. Otherwise, I have never picked an apple in my life so hopefully forgivable liberties were taken. Also, I personally have nothing against the Allman Brothers Band or Joseph Haydn. Classic rock and classical music, FTW. **_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Names**

Michonne sifted through the last of the drawer's contents and stood up to move onto the cabinets behind her. Daryl was across the hall conducting a similar search. Judging by the intermittent cursing that made its way to her ears, he wasn't having much luck either.

The cabinet was a bust too and she was starting to think that maybe it was time to call it a day. They had searched all through the doctor's office. There had been some useful supplies in a couple of the exam rooms; it was amazing luck that whoever had looted before them hadn't recognized its value. But the rest of the small building was pretty picked over. There wasn't much worth bothering with.

Checking the shelves along the wall just in case, Michonne heard a loud thump and another curse from Daryl. She smiled. He'd gotten progressively more pissed the farther into the building they ventured and his irritation was rather funny. From afar.

Grabbing her bag, she left the room to search the one next door. At this point, she wasn't feeling great about her chances of finding anything else good but you could never predict what you were going to find in any given spot. Passing by the open door of the room Daryl was searching, she let out a full-blown chuckle. It looked like a tornado had gone through the room, clouds of dust whirling about and debris littered everywhere around him. The scowl on his face was a familiar one. She'd seen that frustration from him on almost every run.

Never enough loot, no sign of the Governor and sooner or later, they always ended up running for their lives.

Not today, though. They'd taken out the walkers in the small commercial strip and they'd found enough resources to have made the run worth their time. The amount of fuel they'd recovered alone would put them in the red in terms of supplies. There had been a small stash of sample drugs and first aid kits hidden away. A boxful of food from the break room was already loaded in the car. So she wondered why he was so annoyed. Maybe she'd ask him about it on the way back, which would be very soon judging by their progress.

When Daryl saw her pass and heard her chuckle, he whistled to get her attention.

"Not a dog," Michonne said and kept going. She could practically feel him rolling his eyes at her and smiled again. Perhaps she shouldn't be egging him on but he made it pretty easy sometimes. Besides, whistling was fine when they were out in the open and he was trying to be discrete, not when he was standing right across the room from her.

"Fine, 'Michonne.' Get your ass over here for a second." It was a slight improvement yet probably the best she was going to get from his declining mood.

She backtracked and waded through the scattered litter to stand at his side. It didn't look like there was much of anything they'd want to take back with them, just a bunch of books and papers. "You find something?"

"Don't know. Aint much here but a bunch 'a books an' shit. But it all looks like medical stuff. You think Doctor S. and Hershel might want 'em?"

Michonne was impressed. It was good thinking. "Like reference materials. Maybe." She picked up one of the books Daryl had piled up on the desk. "Seems like you already have a few in mind, Doctor Dixon."

Daryl shook his head at her and threw another book on the pile. "Called you in here to figure out which ones to take. Hell if I know what's in 'em. Thought you'd have better luck with that big brain 'a yours." He pulled another set of books off the shelf and then threw them on the floor. "Ow! Damn, girl!"

She had kicked him in the foot before going back to perusing his pile. Normally, she didn't talk much about her life before but she and Daryl had spent so much time together on the road that a few things were bound to come out in conversation. Her past as a lawyer was one of those things and ever since finding that out, he'd poke fun at her about her "fancy book-learnin'" as he called it. He only ever teased her like that when they were alone though and rarely at the prison. There was an understanding that the information they shared out here stayed between them.

Sifting through the growing stacks, she noticed that he had added all of the bigger books but a lot of them were scholarly journals or highly specific texts rather than reference guides. There wasn't a Gray's Anatomy in sight. The stuff littering the floor was either research papers or random forms the doctors had used for their practice.

"This shit might as well be in another language. It all looks like gibberish to me. Check this out." He handed her an article about 75 pages thick.

Michonne grinned. "Daryl, this actually _is_ in another language. That's not gibberish. It's French. Something about the heart and blood or—"

"French. Gibberish. Same difference to me," he said, snatching it from her hand and tossing it to the ground. "Hold up. That big brain 'a yours knows French too?"

"It was my first language," she responded casually. When Michonne realized what she accidentally revealed, she tensed. Daryl's movements beside her had stalled too as he digested the information she'd let slip. She retreated to the other side of the room to inspect the shelves there, setting aside two of the books from the pile she'd sifted through at the table. Her body language made clear that there would be no further commentary from her.

Daryl got the hint.

They went through the rest of the area in silence, Michonne picking out about five huge texts she thought the two doctors might find useful. Dragging her bag of looted supplies, she left Daryl to finish off the rest of the rooms on his side of the hallway.

Twenty minutes later and they were packing the car with everything they'd scavenged. They had yet to exchange more than a few words with each other. It wasn't unusual for them to work without conversation, however, this was an open expanse of silent discomfort.

Michonne felt bad. It was she that was so reluctant to reveal things about her past. Yet Daryl was tiptoeing around her like he had done something wrong and he hadn't. It saddened and angered her how easily he took the brunt of the blame, unfairly and without protest. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he wedged the bin of medical supplies against the side of the trunk while she pushed the heavier items against it to anchor the weight. It was difficult to ignore the tension of his grip or the extra force of his efforts as he reordered the contents of the trunk to his satisfaction. When she turned to face him, he didn't acknowledge her; he kept his focus straight ahead, rigidly so.

Standing next to him, she leaned a hip against the car and folded her arms in front of her. "My grandmother lived with us growing up. She's originally from Haiti so she spoke French to me from the time that I was born and even after I learned to speak English with everyone else. I'm named after her family back in Haiti: Michon, her surname, or the feminine form of it, anyway." The familiar French pronunciation she gave the word stoked a small ache in her heart at the memories that surfaced.

Daryl considered her confession, gripping the strap of his crossbow as he took it in. His expression was unreadable at first but gradually he relaxed. When he finally dared to glance at her, he smiled weakly and nodded.

Michonne stepped back and helped him to close the trunk door. "Sorry for being weird about it. I'm still … " She didn't even know how to apologize properly to him because it was hard to put into words the things that held her back; the fear and panic that plagued her whenever she thought about who she was before.

"I get it," he said, with surprising gentleness. "Didn't mean to be nosy."

She kicked him again in the foot, this time much more softly and with a grin. "Don't be ridiculous. You weren't being nosy. You were being normal." He nodded again, accepting her explanation and apology. They both took the moment to appreciate what they'd found in each other, similar spirits navigating these dark times together. "I'll do better next time?"

His smile widened and he jabbed her in the arm. Tossing her the keys, he replied, "I'll hold ya to it. We're good, though."

They boarded the car and got on the road, foregoing any music for the now more comfortable silence.

"You know," Daryl said after they'd been driving for about five minutes. "I heard from my mom that she picked my name out special after some famous athlete or celebrity, who the hell knows what. Turns out, she named me after my drunk-ass great uncle who got so lit on moonshine that he drove his pickup right into the barber shop 'cross town. Twice. Accordin' to Merle anyway. And whatn't no tellin' if even that was true since you couldn't spit without hittin' a Daryl in my town. She was probably just followin' the crowd like usual."

Michonne tried to suppress her snickering. Daryl had a way of making a random story about his fucked up home-life into the wittiest anecdote on how well he'd persevered. This didn't beat the story about getting lost in the woods and wiping his ass with poison oak but it was up there. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh."

"Why the hell not?" he said, joining in on her amusement. "Shit's funny. Can't trust a damn thing to come out a Dixon's mouth."

"Present company excluded, of course," Michonne added.

He grinned at her with a twinkle in his eye. "If you say so." Their laughter resumed.

"Well, I think Daryl is a good name. I had a cousin named Daryl. Maybe he was from your town?" They looked at each other and burst out laughing even harder.

When their chuckles died down, Michonne took stock and had to admit she felt better for revealing another small part of herself to Daryl. Even if it hurt to acknowledge these things, they did remind her that it was okay to be human and not just this machine for survival, always in warrior mode.

They drove on for another half an hour. Daryl had taken to staring out the window, always keeping watch for threats or things they might want to investigate.

"Hey." Daryl turned from the window at the sound of her voice. "You know what else my big brain knows?"

He narrowed his eyes as if he wasn't so sure he wanted her to answer.

"I didn't need any fancy book learning to catch you pocketing those packs of gum for yourself." She'd seen the packages sitting on the front desk as they walked into the doctor's office. After killing the three walkers that had come stumbling across the waiting room, she noticed them missing and Daryl looking particularly smug.

Daryl grinned and dug into his pocket. "Split 'em witcha?" He didn't even bother denying it.

"Deal." He took out two of the packs and handed them over. And just like that, things were okay with them again. The good humor filled the car for the entire trip back.


End file.
